Could Have Been
by VKlepto
Summary: One by one, they turn away. Albus rarely leaves them a choice, but for some reason, despite his intellect, he is always left wondering why.


_A/N: One shot written for the Rare Pair prompt table-y challenge on livejournal. A bit less cheerful than what I usually write, be warned._

* * *

Minerva isn't surprised to find him sitting at his desk. On the contrary: she would have been shocked to find him anywhere else. Lately she's been theorizing that he actually transfigured his rear into a chair, but the expression on his face instantly stills her sillier thoughts.

"Headmaster?" She hedges when he doesn't acknowledge her presence in his office. Albus licks his chapped lips.

"Sir?" Minerva presses, her hand resting on the corner of his desk as she nears him. His wide eyes blink suddenly, and he clutches his dead hand to his stomach. The black of his skin contrasts starkly with the muted blue of his robes, but still he says nothing. She brushes forward and falls to her knees beside him. "Albus..."

She reaches up and wraps his hands in hers, drawing them both to her lips and kissing the bad one softly on the back. The skin is rough and dry against her mouth. "What happened?" She whispers, peering towards his face, but his eyes are trained on their entwined hands.

"My mother is dead."

She squints a little; he hasn't told her much about his life, but she knows that his mother has been dead for years. He huffs a heavy sigh.

"My father too. Perhaps I killed my sister. Aberforth will attend my funeral with great cheer."

"You know that's not true..." She murmurs, even though it probably is. He squeezes her hands before withdrawing from her grasp and passing his good hand over his weary face. She notices the circles under his eyes, blue-black craters marring the surface of his moon-pale face.

"The Potters, the Longbottoms... what I must ask of Harry..." He trails off, his voice deep and loaded with malcontent. "There is no one. I have brought little but suffering to all those whom offered me their trust. To all those whom I have loved. And despite that, it selfishly occurs to me from time to time that I have nobody. One by one, everybody has gone and left me cold." He pauses and studies her for a second. "I am not often so frank with my feelings. Does it bother you?"

"No," she lies. It does, though, because sometimes she likes to think that he is the Jesus their world imagines him to be. Sometimes she pretends that he has all the answers, that he is the god whose weight he carries solidly on his shoulders, even though she knows he's simply human better than anybody. She doesn't like to see him doubt himself, and even less does she like to see him so upset. But he is opening up to her, something she has long asked of him, and so she swallows her discomfort.

"Then allow me a final confession before I must pull myself together." He murmurs, reaching down to rest his good hand against her face. "Whenever my thoughts hit that particular wall, I find a tenacious fly buzzing around my logic, because you have gone nowhere." Her breath catches in her throat as Albus leans forward to kiss her on the forehead; his lips are cold. "I am unsure whether or not I have ever thanked you."

"No." She responds so softly he has to strain to hear him. She wants to tell him that it's only natural for her to be there for him as he has always been there for her. He has supported her unerringly since she was twelve and her father had died and he had summoned her to his classroom in the middle of her charms midterm to give her a hug. She wants to tell him that she has loved him always, ever since he had kissed her cheek at a school dance in her seventh year. She has not always waited for him. She has never pined, nor has she been a nun in the absence of his interest. Sometimes her love was half hate, but always it has been there. She wants to tell him all of these things, but eloquence has always been his strong suit, not hers. She doesn't have the words.

So she just reaches up and places her hand on the back of his neck, his silver hair coarse to the touch. Minerva searches his eyes, hoping to find the usual twinkle, but instead the blue is muddled, crashing ocean waves. But he doesn't pull away, even as she moves her face towards his. Even when their noses touch. He even leans toward her; their heads tilt simultaneously. She touches her lips softly, softly to his. And he doesn't move. For a moment she wonders if maybe she should have just swallowed everything he makes her feel like she usually does, but then his good hand is in her hair and his mouth is hot and wide against hers.

As they kiss, he pulls her to her feet, and she slides thoughtlessly onto his lap, seamlessly assimilating her body with his. She feels as though they've done this thousands of times before; his hands feel so right clutched around her waist, his heartbeat so synchronized to hers, she isn't sure they haven't. He breaks away from her needy mouth, his hands trembling.  
"Minerva," he whispers into her mouth, kissing the corner of her lips.. "I love you."

The words sound so strange coming from his mouth that she wants to laugh. "You don't," she murmurs, her lips at his temples.

"Truly." He argues, his hands playing her spine like a harpsichord. "I have loved you for longer than I can in good conscience admit."

"When I was eleven?" She queries with a wicked smile, and he chuckles with his lips against the skin of her neck.

"Heavens, no."

"When I was fourteen? I spent a lot of time in your office for lessons..."

"You are absurd."

"When I was sixteen, then."

"Yes."

"Really?" She breathes into his earlobe. His knuckles turn white with how tightly he's clutching her.

"Yes," he croaks, her lips working around his ear so that his toes curl in his shoes. "You came into my office in a rage about a less than glowing grade I gave you on a paper. You spoke so quickly that I couldn't understand you; your burr cut too deep. Your cheeks were red. I was terrified you would begin to spit fire if I did not rectify the situation, and so I did. Somewhere in between those lines I realized that if ever I were to fall in love, you would be the one." Minerva pauses for a beat.

"Pedophile."

"Mm," is all he says in response, kissing her thoroughly. They break apart, both grinning foolishly. But Minerva's smile fades, and she reaches her hand from his shoulder to the strand of white hair that spirals before his face. She tucks it behind his ear wistfully.

"You waited so long to tell me."

"Yes."

She is quiet. He can see the cogs of her mind whirring in her eyes behind her glasses. She hovers on the edge of comprehension. He can see it. Then she has it. Understanding squeezing her stomach and settling in her green eyes, clear and sharp and unafraid. "You did not intend to tell me."

"No."

"The circumstances must be dire," she concludes, and her words are met by a noncommittal lift of his brows. His gaze betrays him, in the end. It always has. He glances at his damaged hand. She swallows. "This is not just a flesh wound."

"No, my dear. I am afraid it is not."

Her head spins.

"You are dying." It is a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

Her lips tremble weakly for a split second before she manages to pull it together. Within a moment she is again the Minerva he has respected far longer than he has loved her: strong, steadfast, fiercely independent, damnably stubborn.

"Why did you wait?" She asks levelly, her face a mask.

"I am forever overestimating the capacities of the world," he explains grimly. And then, with a shrug, "I thought that there was time."

She nods, kissing his cheek. She gets it now. All of it. He never had any intention of telling her at a juncture in time amenable to a relationship. Albus Dumbledore never miscalculates, even though modesty often encourages him to pretend, and this is no exception. He must forever cling to his lifelong lover, the concubine of all truly powerful men: martyrdom. He needs to have her before he dies so that his fall is all the harder. So his death has more resonance in the world he will leave. She gets it. She nods, kissing his lips chastely as she disentangles herself from his arms.

"If you had kissed me when I was sixteen," she says as she stands, "I would have been horrified."

"Hence my refrain."

"If you had kissed me when I was seventeen, it would have been a different story entirely. If you had written to me any time from the time I was eighteen to twenty-five, I would have been at your side in the blink of an eye." Minerva pauses, her lips pinched. "After I began working here, if you had so much as implied the existence of your feelings, I would have thrown myself at you without a thought."

"That would have been highly inappropriate, I think." He replies, attempting humor that falls flat in the static room.

"We could have had nearly a century together. We could have been happy."

"Ridiculously so."

"I could have persuaded you to sleep instead of working yourself to death."

"I could have cheerfully spoiled you within an inch of your life."

"I could have defeated your abominable ego."

"How?"

"By annihilating your reputation as a skilled chess player."

"Ha!"

"We could have had children."

"Dozens of fat ones with your eyes."

"Would that have been so bad?"

"Do not look at me like that, Minerva, please. It is not too late for everything."

"It is, though." She responds icily, and he stands, clasping her folded elbows and resting his forehead against hers.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes," she murmurs, "but you had a lifetime of chances to know my love. The race cannot be won simply because you sprint the final stretch."

She removes his hands from her elbows with a meek smile. Minerva straightens her glasses, kisses his cheek once more. And then she leaves him alone in his office of snoring portraits and whirring objects, his card-house of secret plans and tangled web of quiet failures.

One by one, they turn away. Albus rarely leaves them a choice, but for some reason, despite his intellect, he is always left wondering why.


End file.
